Burning the Facade
by Heather
Summary: Not even fire can destroy true love.


Title: "Shattered Soul"   
Author: Heather Horn   
Rating: G  
Category: V, A, MSF   
Original Post Date: 09/03/00 - Revised 03/27/02  
Spoilers: "Irresistible"  
Summary: There is strength within forgiveness that can  
brighten even the darkest hour.   
Distribution: Anywhere and everywhere. Please keep my name  
attached, and let me know where you are putting it. Thank  
you!   
Feedback: Please send any comments - kisses and flames are   
both greatly appreciated - to heathabear@hotmail.com.   
Thanks a billion!  
Disclaimer: "The X-Files" is copyright Chris Carter, 1013  
Productions, and The FOX Network. No money is being made   
from this. No copyright infringement is intended.  
Acknowledgements: Thanks, Marie, for all of your hard work,   
kind words, and input - you're the best beta-reader a  
writer could ever ask for. Thanks, Char, for your help with   
grammar - I owe you one. Thanks, Jewel, for starting the   
marvelous Chuckles Scully revolution.  
  
  
"Love is the sunlight of the soul." - "Rigoletto"  
  
  
"Shattered Soul" (1/1)  
By Heather Horn  
  
You know that feeling that you get when you have been on   
your feet all day, and your legs feel as if they could  
fall right off of your body at any given moment? You  
climb into bed, wanting nothing more than a good night's  
sleep, an escape from the agony of the real world.  
  
Rest is out of the question, though. It was never in the   
question to begin with. The sore muscles in your thighs   
generate a surging ache that travels up your body, through   
your stomach and arms, tensing your shoulders as the pain   
reaches your head. The night is spent tossing and turning,   
like a small child on Christmas Eve.  
  
For the child, though, there is mirth at sunrise.  
Shiny paper will fly from the delicately wrapped presents as  
that special toy is uncovered.  
  
Sleeplessness induced by pain only brings further pain in   
the morning. At daybreak, the only thing to look forward  
to is another dose of acetaminophen.  
  
Over the past two years, many a night have I spent   
in this manner, far more than I care to remember. I have   
learned to deal with physical pain. Cuts and bruises are only   
on the surface. Though painful to the touch, they heal over   
time. As a scientist and a medical doctor, I could only hope   
to someday develop a cure for what currently ailed me.  
  
My mind.  
  
My heart.  
  
My soul.  
  
Mine.  
  
These things have been taken from me, just as your sister has   
been taken from you. My mission ran parallel to yours as  
well. I would find what I had lost, if it was the last thing  
that this life would allow me to do.  
  
You offered to stay, but I declined - I only wanted to   
sleep. As you stared into my eyes, frantically searching for  
some sign of life, I forced myself to look away. I regretted  
this action almost immediately, and slowly fixed my eyes   
with yours. Without ever saying a word, you knew. You knew  
as well as you knew how to breathe that Donnie Pfaster had  
deeply affected me, but I would be fine. You knew that   
I needed to be alone, I needed to rest. You respected my   
wish, respected me as I know you always will. You tucked me   
into the strange, yet all too familiar motel bed, then   
pulled the covers up to my chin. As you walked to the door,   
your step slightly slower than usual, you whispered your   
standard "Good night, Scully," and added an "I'm next   
door if you need anything" to boot.  
  
You have been my friend and my savior, through thick and   
thin. I have come to trust you. Only you. As you cradled me   
in your arms earlier this evening, all the demons momentarily   
left my body. I did not want to tell you. Yanking out my   
wisdom teeth with a pair of pliers sounded more appealing.   
I wanted to be your friend, your equal. What I did not want   
was for you to know that I needed you. I would not tell   
you, I could not. As I stood before you, torn and tattered,   
I promised myself that, despite whatever else I did, I would   
not shatter. I would not let down my guard.  
  
As much as I hate to admit it, everyone breaks a promise   
once or twice in his or her life. I suppose I broke my own   
promise - part of it, anyway. I let down my guard, in front   
of Donnie Pfaster, in front Moe Bocks.  
  
In front of you.  
  
The funny thing is, I did not feel the least bit sorry   
about my broken vow. No regret, no foot-in-mouth scenario.   
  
The last promise that I broke was when I was   
seventeen-years-old. I had promised Charlie, who preferred   
to be called "Chaz" at the time, that I would pick him up   
from the county fair at ten o'clock. Rain began to fall by   
the bucketful, and I fell asleep on the couch with the  
pitter-patter of raindrops reverberating in my ears.  
  
Charlie had trusted me to pick him up. Some sister I was,  
peacefully sleeping on the couch as Charlie was soaked  
to the core.  
  
The phone lines were down, so he could not even call. His  
friends had left the fair long ago, and Charlie was left   
alone. Sometime after midnight, I heard the door crack open.   
  
"Mom? Is that you?" I rubbed my eyes, sitting up on the   
couch.  
  
"Guess again."  
  
There stood my baby brother, drenched in enough water to   
fill a swimming pool. His eyes closed as he shook his   
head in disappointment, then he retired to his bedroom,   
letting out a deep, congested cough as he headed up the   
staircase.  
  
"Oh, my God, Chaz, I am so sorry!" I cried after him, but   
he was gone. I had never felt so terrible in my life, and   
to add to my guilty conscience, he woke up the next morning   
with the flu. I took care of him for a week, bought him   
gifts, did his chores. He claimed that he forgave me.   
Of course he forgave me. After all, he was the antithesis   
of Bill.  
  
But there is no worse feeling than knowing that you have let  
someone down.  
  
Did I let you down tonight? Did I disappoint you in a way  
that I would have deemed unimaginable prior to this case?  
  
Your warm embrace told me no. Silence surrounded us, but   
I heard your unspoken words none the less, clearer than the   
sky on a crisp autumn day:  
  
It is okay to let it all out. I am your friend. I am here  
for you.  
  
Even angels fall.  
  
So do FBI agents.  
  
You comforted me, your thoughts consoled me. As I lie in   
bed, though, my mind tells me that I need more than your   
approval. I need my own approval as well.  
  
I had not made any promises to anyone, not even myself,   
since I broke my promise to Charlie. It is easier to keep   
promises if you do not make them at all. Tonight, I   
discarded this belief. I made a promise, and I broke  
half of it just as quickly.  
  
Charlie forgave me. Could I forgive myself?   
  
My eyelids fluttered shut, and my life ran through my   
mind in snippets. There were heart-wrenching memories,  
memories of Donnie Pfaster, of my father's death, of my   
broken promise to Charlie.  
  
To prove that my life was not a farce, there were   
heart-warming memories as well. Memories of you,  
memories of the first time that my father called me   
"Starbuck". My favorite memory is of when I was a  
little girl, no older than four or five. I had constant   
nightmares, but I never screamed - it was as if even in my   
sleep, I knew that Bill would eternally tease me for being  
a baby.  
  
Instead, I would tiptoe into Mom's room, sniffling and   
whimpering as quietly as humanly possible. I climbed into  
bed with her, and she instinctively knew that it was me.   
She embraced me, let me cry into her nightgown. When I was  
through, she turned on the light, scaring all the monsters  
away. I sat at the foot of the bed as I told her the details   
of the nightmare, and she brushed my long, Annie-red locks   
until they were as soft as silk.  
  
My hair.   
  
My eyes popped open as my hands flew directly to my   
head, grabbing onto clumps of hair to make sure that it   
was still there.   
  
Every strand of hair on my head was accounted for.  
  
My hair.  
  
Not a part of some fetishist's collection, but my hair.  
  
Mine.  
  
At that precise moment in time, I realized that I could   
forgive myself. I broke half of my promise, but I kept   
the other half better than any promise I have ever kept.  
  
I may have let my guard down, but I did not shatter. I was  
on the verge of cracking into a million pieces, but you  
caught me before I hit the ground. I knew that you were   
there for me. I could count on you.  
  
You saved me.  
  
As long as I have you, I will never shatter. Events may   
occur that cause me to drop my guard again, but I now   
realize that this is not necessarily a bad thing.  
  
Forgiveness is a virtue, even in forgiving yourself. It   
gives a sense of pure serenity and contentment, as do you,   
but in a different light.   
  
I have myself, and I have you. The puzzle is complete.  
  
We have each other.  
  
Alone, we are weak and vulnerable. Sophomoric entities,   
searching for something ineffable to define ourselves  
with.  
  
Together, we create a force stronger than every demon   
we will ever face, a bond unbreakable, even against  
lies, nightmares, and broken promises.   
  
The journey continues.  
  
Together.  
  
THE END (1/1)  
  
Thank you for taking the time to read "Shattered Soul".  
I hope you enjoyed it! Please send any comments - kisses  
and flames are both greatly appreciated - to   
heathabear@hotmail.com. Thanks a billion!  
  
You can find all of my fan fiction at my website,  
Mulder + Scully = True Love  
http://mstruelove.tripod.com  
"True love is friendship set on fire." 


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